"You have never known the ear that listens for your footsteps,—the lips that meet your own in a long, passionate kiss,—the kiss that thrills—and burns—and maddens—"
"Stephania—in mercy—cease!"
Again he attempted to rise, again she drew him down.
"You are not like other men—Otto! Will you always live so lonely,—so companionless,—with no one to love you with that lasting love, for which your whole soul cries out?"
Shivering he raised his arms as if to shut the sight of her from his dazzled gaze. Again, though fainter, Eckhardt's terrible warning knocked at the gates of his memory. But her purring voice with its low melodious roll, wooed his listening heart till the doors of reason tottered on their hinges. And the end—what would be the end?
"Tell me no more," he gasped, "tell me no more! I cannot listen! I dare not listen! You will destroy me! You will destroy us both!"
Her lips parted in a smile,—that fateful smile, which caused his soul to quake. Her fine nostrils quivered, as she bent towards him.
"You cannot?" she said. "You dare not? Will you pass the cup untasted, the cup that brims with the crimson joy of love? Is there none in all the world to take you by the hand,—to lead you home?"
With a cry half inarticulate he sprang toward her,—his fierce words tumbling from delirious lips:
"Yes,—there is one,—there is one,—one who could lift me up till my soul should sing in heavenly bliss,—one who could bring to me forgetfulness and peace,—one who could change my state of exalted loneliness to a delirium of ecstasy,—one who could lead me, wherever she would—could I but lay my head on her breast,—touch her lips,—call her mine—"